A Bridge Of Magpies (21 page)

I
headed at low crouch for the shack, my bare feet silent _

on the planks. The shack hadn't a deck door and its portholes were blacked out. There was, however-a gleam of light through
a
roof skylight. I shinned up the stern
mast
ratlines–they were only a few feet away from the shack – and dropped down cat-like on the roof. It took only a moment to force the skylight with my knife, and slip in. The light wasn't coming from the shack itself but from a door a little ajar which led to the 'tween-decks below.

I
hung by my hands from the sill and the soles of my feet touched one of the big electronics consoles. I detected lettering. I dropped down and read-'Transit sonar–Kelvin Hughes.' Now a transit sonar
is
a sophisticated instrument–big brother to the echo-sounder – which has nothing to do with fish but is employed almost exclusively for salvage work; and Kelvin Hughes is a well-known manufacturer. Pieces of the jigsaw fell rapidly into place.
Sang A
had made those odd directional approaches to the launch
area
because a transit sonar doesn't throw a straight up-and-down pulsed echo wave like an echo-sounder but, instead, an inverted V-shaped beam, offset to one side of the ship. So
Sang A
had to make her runs to one side to obtain a trace of whatever she was after. The size, depth and position of an underwater object is plotted automatically on graph paper–as on the
cylinder
Captain Mild had handed Kenryo. The other instruments were: conventional Asdic echo141 sounder, radar, and electronic navigational gear. My discovery of the transit sonar also blew the secret of that heavy gear on deck: the powerful derricks and threesheaved tackles. They were for salvage - peaceful salvage-though that didn't explain the mounted machine-gun. The armoured hose was an àir-lift' used for clearing mud round a wreck on the sea-bed.

There was so much racket coming from beyond the door that I didn't have to
move
about too cautiously; I decided also to have a look-see at the party.

The door led to an exceptionaJly long cabin, stretching the entire width of the ship, which appeared to be used as a general mess room. Tables and chairs were stacked against the walls and there was a thick carpet on the deck. The air was rancid with the sweat-smell of active men. The whole crew-about twenty-seemed as high as a moon probe. It must have taken some exotic Eastern drug to have sent them on a trip like that-an Einstein, the hippies call it: way out and beyond the farthest stars.

They were all wearing loose things like karate gowns and were lamming into one another with long wooden staves and yelling bloody murder as they did so. Some leapt high into the air like dervishes. Then, at a whistle signal-the melee sorted itself into groups, like a possessed ballet chorus: first of six men, then four, and finally two, all shouting and bashing. Eventually all but one pair fell back against the walls, sweating and stamping.

Kenryo was one of the two remaining in the ring. He and the other Korean circled one another like wrestlers looking for an opening. Kenryo's opponent lashed out suddenly at his legs, but Kenryo side-stepped the blow with a verticaJ

take-off and from shoulder height hit the other man a vicious crack across the forehead. Kenryo's man wasn't out, but he
was as
near to it as anyone could be after a haymaker like that. He stood dazed and swaying. Unfortunately for him the Queensberry rules weren't in operation and he couldn't make for a neutral corner. The mob shouted like madmen; Kenryo swung his stave with both hands into the other's left side, near the heart. That finished him. He started to sag and Kenryo went up and kicked him in the testicles. He went down, screaming with pain. Kenryo kicked him again. Then the spectators were all over both men and 142

chaired off Kenryo, shoulder-high. The only two who didn't seem to be having fun were Emmermann and Captain Miki-who stood together on the sidelines. Miki's remote air was apparent to me even at that distance.

I took a firm grip of my knife and got out.

I shot through the skylight, down the ratlines and on
to
the deck. There was some faint illumination by virtue of the portholes' reflection off the fog curtain. I started to head towards the bow of the ship where the machine-gun was. But where I stood, still aft, was an intriguing bulky object, concealed under a large tarpaulin. Another weapon? I cut loose the lashings: underneath was a long cylindrical metal object, about eight feet long and three in diameter-with a large yellow '4' painted on
its
conical top. It was a salvage mooring buoy. They are generally numbered in sixes according to the type of mooring to be laid down. Then I went for
a
bundle wrapped in black plastic-next to the buoy, and ripped it open. It contained a stack of fourinch metal tubes of varying length-some over
a
dozen feet and
some
as little as three. I started to explore by touch, and my fingers came upon a gnarled surface at the end of one of the tubes. I froze. I knew what I'd struck: special underwater explosive charges, designed to blow open wrecks. I'

d seen Navy specialists using them. What I was fingering was an adjustable, sensitive membrane which explodes the device by water pressure. There was enough high explosive in the stack to blow
Sang A
on to the top of the Bridge of Magpies.

I decided to go for the gun for'ard Before leaving I selected the smallest tube J could find. Souvenirs have their uses. The tiny burn on the nape of my neck felt like a hypodermic needle. At the same instant a cold circle of steel pressed under my left ear. Pistol muzzles have their own special sort of caress you don't forget in a hurry. The man - probably the anchor-watch-was standing over me with a long-razor-sharp knife that had nicked me like a cat's claw ripping a captive mouse for fun. I kept so still that I didn't even unclasp my hands from the bomb. But my upward view took in, in succession, the guard's bare feet, dark baggy pants, heavy, short-armed body, black leather jacket and balaclava-encased head.

He brought his knife against my other ear so that the two 143

weapons made a pincer on either side of my head. Any movement of mine would have telegraphed itself immediately to him. He was a professional and as wary
as a
panther. He stood far back enough to prevent my sideswiping his legs, but close enough to retain full command over me.

He made a gesture with the pistol which I misinterpreted until he reinforced it with the knife. I thought he wanted me up-back to him. I reckoned he was mad to let me hang on to the bomb.

Then he gestured again. He was showing me over the side!

I couldn't believe it. But I had no intention of inviting knife-thrust or bullet. So I mimed my query. He gestured back impatiently: I was to go.

Not crediting my luck-I clambered on to the rail and paused. He was standing there, a dim, grim, masked figure with a weapon in each hand. I lowered myself overboard. I swam clear of
Sang A
and orientated myself on the dinghy.

In reaction to the last few minutes' events, I found myself treading water, trying to get control of my arms and legs and at the same time keep hold of that bomb, with its pressure-sensitive mechanism. If it sank it would explode right under me.

According to my water-proof watch, I was early for our rendezvous, so after I'd recovered I swam slowly. The pick-up signal was the low-pitched sound obtained by blowing in an empty cartridge case. We'd decided it wouldn't carry far and was sufficiently like the prevalent bird-noises to
escape
attention.

All
at
once the underside of the fog curtain took on a strange silver-blue colour. The sea around me became as silver as a young salmon. I raised an arm: it dripped luminosity. My fish-eye view of the channel was necessarily limited, but I guessed that the whole of
its
surface was being lighted up by a multitude of minute fire-bearing creatures that were being swept in by the current from the south. The fog made a low-ceilinged black dome above the sea's silver shield. It was pleasant to admire but no good for escape. I struck out strongly and swiftly. Then I heard Jutta's signal, ahead and to one side. I gave a cautious whistle back and then spotted a beautiful, luminous arc of watery fire 144

riling from an oar as Jutta began to row.

In a moment I was alongside. Jutta's face didn't look vely in the weird light but dead and colourless like a materialized spirit at a seance. Maybe I appeared lovely coming over the side trailing phosphorescence but I was too anxious to get away to care about the personal beauty stakes. : pitched the bomb in the bottom of the boat without explanation or greeting, grabbed the oars and begun to scull. We hadn't gone far when the world went black. The silver magic vanished. At any other
time
I might have regretted it. I guessed we had broken out of the light-giving mainstream coming up-channel and must, accordingly, be quite close to Possession's cliffs.

We were. It wasn't long before we heard the wash of breakers. We were well to the south of the jetty, of course, so I followed the coastline by the sound of the breakers to port-and after what seemed an endless row came at last to the landing-place.

Jutta and I hadn't exchanged one word, all the times
I
s till couldn't be close to her with that torch business eating me –in spite of her parting words. The torch itself lay next to the bomb, on the bottom-boards; we both shunned it as though it were a black mamba.

I led the way to the bunkhouse and, after I'd changed, joined her at the fire for food and coffee.

She started the ball rolling. In a neutral voice, she said, 'I'

ve never seen anything so lovely as that sea, Struan.'

-'

I expected-any moment-to be shot at.'

Her eyes seemed to find lots of places to look at in the
fire.
They never met mine.

I
said, 'I had a bummer of a trip . . I described what
I
had found in the shack; on the deck; the sadistic scene in the mess; my incredible let-off. 'Search me why he didn't make
a
killing. I'd written myself off as a goner.'

'What did he say?' Her voice was strained and apprehensive. '

Nothing. I saw nothing either. He had the cap
pulled
right down over his face.'

'Thank God for him l'

Her relief still didn't bridge the gap between us.

'Why that gun-toting bruiser didn't turn me in I'll never know.'

'I sat waiting in the fog for a hundred years.'

145

She was giving-me all the openings but I couldn't take them.

'Don't start throwing your hat in the air
yet,'
I replied brusquely. 'I can't imagine he'll go on keeping his mouth shut about me.'

'He may have to, to save his own skin.'

We might have been light years away, judging by the lack of warmth between us.

'Anyway, I'm going to beat him to the chequered flag lomorrow,' I said. 'I think I know now what
Sang A
is up to: 146

What we saw spread oul round
Sang A
next day underscored my discoveries of the previous night. The salvage part, at least.

It was
a
six-pointed pattern of cables and chains stretching out about half a mile to the main points of the compass with the black ship in the centre. It resembled a gigantic spoked wheel on the sea's surface-with
Sang A as
its hub. Half-a-dozen moorings had been made ready, and numbered buoys were in position–a typical preliminary salvage lay-out. It had all been done some time before the fog lifted. The
Sang A
crowd had certainly sweated out their hangovers. Echoes of the previous night hung a little drearily on the morning air between Jutta and me. I'd tried to fling away the thought of her possible duplicity, but the nagging suspicion of the torch affair still stuck.

She stared at
Sang A-
and across the channel to where
the City of Baroda
lay. I couldn't fathom the expression in her eyes.

She said, 'My search is snowballing into something far beyond what it originally was. I'm scared for the future.'

I replied–to reassure her –not to convince myself, 'There are too many ghosts around. Those salvage preparations are a complete give-away. The frigate will be along any time now and that will be that.'

She didn't answer. The sunlit anchorage seemed so peaceful; even the day was unnatural in its continued calm. It

was
hard to credit the other side of the
Sang A
coin. Why go then? Why not wait?'

I might have found a reply of sorts, before last night. Now I shrugged.

'I'm going aboard
Sang
A.
Stay if you wish.'

'Never.'

We left it at that.

I rowed us out in the dinghy to
Sang A.
Her boats were fussing about. Some of the crew stood at the rails watching us approach, their dull, sullen fares so similar that I couldn't 147

pick out individuals. If I hadn't seen them going to town the night before I couldn't have credited what a bunch of rowdies they could be.

We made fast. Emmermann and Kenryo
were
on the catwalk awaiting us. Even less than before did
I
like the look of
Sang A's
number one hatchet man. The whites of his eyes weren't white, but murky yellow.

Ì've been expecting you
all
morning, Captain Weddell.'

Emmermann smiled sarcastically. 'It would be unlike a gogetting headman to stand aside from this.' He indicated the preparations.

'That's what I've come about.'

`Salvage is no doubt within the province of island headmen also?'

`Don't beat about the bush, Emmermann. You know

damn well you can't undertake salvage operations here.' '

So . . . now?'

Kenryo regarded me with his glum face
and
dirty eyes. I wanted to give a medal to the guy who'd smashed his nose. Now that I was near him I smelt the acrid odour of stale sweat and burned-out drugs. I wondered
how
good he'd be for a fight, without
a
drag.